Now all love songs sound meaningless all over again.
All the memories just fade and the feelings I had evaporate.
I'd shoot a thousand needles and painful bullets
at the one face I used to love and urged to touch.
I'd write you a book about my love then, but now I would
throw dagger-like words, squeezed with hatred all the same.
And I would have caressed your hair if you were mine, I thought;
but these bleeding hands will pull them violently, and comb mine
in hatred and maybe happiness, because I feel
free; the tiny door of the cage being knocked over by an eagle.
It's open and I'm free, of all the hindrance that's you.